His name was Coldness, Hers was Warmth
by Tiramisu and coffee
Summary: Arthur is getting colder, and she is getting warmer. He is the living, she is the dead. AU. Arthur/Amelia, Female America. Warnings: Character death


**His name was Coldness, Hers was Warmth**

Characters: Arthur Kirkland (England), Amelia Jones (Female America)

Pairing: Arthur/Amelia

Warnings: Character death

Word count: 910

Note: I have been having a little of a writing block, so this is something that is filled with "feelings" rather than "description".

**His name was Coldness, Hers was Warmth**

There were hours where Arthur could sit completely still, staring out the window with a cup of tea in his cold hands, trying to warm up the numbness, the coldness that was lingering inside of him. He was kind of lost, kind of gone and he was still there.

Outside, the snow had started to fall down from the darkening sky, the light from the streetlights making it seem like the snow was dancing downwards to the ground. And for Arthur – that reminded him so much of his beloved, his only one, who had become so lost in the world. He sat there, with the cup of tea in his cold hands, and he wished so much to be there, by her side, and make her feel so much better.

He stood up, in a form of trance, set the half-finished tea and went out in the hallway, leaving the completely dark room empty, empty for a human soul. And Arthur knew where he was going, where he always went when he felt so lost and so empty.

He dressed himself in a thick coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck and slipped off his slippers and took on his outwear shoes. There was the security of being dressed in thick clothes, hiding his ugliness from the beautiful earth, and he wanted to go now away from there, but surely he could not.

The coldness outside was numbing when he stepped outside the old, weary house, closing the door with a sigh, a mutter and a look at the sky as he opened the umbrella, not wanting to feel the heaviness on his shoulder from the snow.

And so he walked. Walking was a tiring thing, even for him, and the thought of having to go there, was the only thing that made everything so much lighter. He felt no happiness, no sorrow and only regret. He was a man, and he was regretting so many things.

The streets were bare of people, only him; walking, slowly and steadily, towards the last place giving him solitude, peace and he wanted to give something in return for that. He wanted to confess, to look at her and to give her something she had always wished for. He wanted her to feel happiness, to be – alive – once again, but wishes were stupid and he was not God.

Sometimes solitude was the only answer to his mind. And his solitude ate him alive, from the very core of himself and he wanted nothing more to give away from that, since it always made him wonder why he was still being – still breathing.

And the snow crunched under his soles, and his head was a spinning mess, and his words were dead on ears to himself, and the only thing that kept him going further down the road to that building that had joined him and her, was the curiosity in his chest that burned faintly.

In the solitude in the snow brought land, in the cold, cold England, he was a mess as a human. The darkness had already allowed him such loneliness, and the dead tired noises from the animal life, was slowly dying away and he was the only living thing in this world.

As the road swung, leading him towards the graveyard behind the Church, he became dead. He became cold. Sweeping across the ground, walking too lightly, he was already on his final step to the dead.

The Church was a big shadow above him as he walked, slowly, across the frozen, snow covered ground, and not looking at the graves he passed. None of them interested him and none of the names were sweetness or bitterness to him.

He only walked, and walked only, and to this place he had been on a walk to, in automatic steps. The grave was not of the best look out, and Arthur had tried his best, but hatred and rage had him filled every time, making him kick, hit and throw things at the very stone, before sinking to the ground, crying – begging.

Today, though, he only stared at the grave, staring at the name that woke up so many feelings inside of him, and none of them were love. All in all – he was angry, so angry and frustrated and only wanted to cause so much hurt on her.

He fumbled in his pockets and drew out a small light, which he lit with shaking hands, placed it on her grave, and he dropped his umbrella, letting the snow that fell from the sky cover his shoulders. He placed his hands together, murmured to himself as he closed his eyes, trying to force every single angry thought out of his mind, but he could not.

He shortened his prayer, and sank to the ground, staring at the grave in front of him and whispered in a small voice; "Why?" and there was only darkness and solitude, and loneliness that replied him. And he was so alone and left so gone into himself.

He picked himself up, brushed off the wet snow and picked up his umbrella. He looked, shortly at the grave – glared at it before walking away. He was coldness and she was warmth, and she was the dead and he was the living.

_Amelia Kirkland née Jones  
Born 4__th__ of July 1976  
Died 25__th__ of December 1998_

_A loving sister, a caring friend and a dearly missed wife_


End file.
